


My Darling, I Am Yours (And You Are Mine)

by Trufreak89



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Abduction, F/F, Post 2x08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-03-17 12:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trufreak89/pseuds/Trufreak89
Summary: “Shh. It’s okay.” She tenderly tucks a strand of the woman’s hair behind her ear. “I’ve got you, Eve. I’m going to look after you… You’ll see.”





	1. Prologue

The crisp mountain air bites at the young woman’s face as she cradles a mug of piping hot tea. The sun lingers just above the horizon and the already frigid temperature is dropping.

She blows on the tea before taking a tentative sip. It burns its way down her throat and settles in her belly. The warmth spreads through her, like a flower blooming.

She lets out a heavy sigh and her breath hangs in the air in a cloud of steam. The little Italian village she has found herself in is painfully dull.

Sauze di Cesana rests in the North-West of Italy, near the French border and just over forty miles from Turin. It’s an eight-hour drive from Rome.

The car Villanelle stole to get her there sits outside the chalet she is renting. Money isn’t an issue. She has bank accounts and safety deposit boxes stashed all over Europe; not to mention some old-school places, like fake rocks in public parks.

That was something Konstantin had taught her early on. A trick from his KGB days. Thinking of Konstantin makes her frown. He betrayed her. And for what? His stupid family?

She shifts, snow crunching underfoot, and leans her body against the wooden railing of the second-floor balcony. Thoughts of Konstantin invariably lead to thoughts of Eve. Villanelle grips the cup she’s holding harder.

With a feral cry she wrenches her arm back and thrusts it forward, throwing the cup as far as she can. It sinks in to a snow dune, leaving a dark stain on the freshly fallen snow. It looks like dried blood on the otherwise untouched landscape. Villanelle smiles.

There’s a noise from inside. It sounds like something clattered off the bedside table and onto the hard stone floor. Villanelle turns and heads back in, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind her. She locks it with a flick of her wrist and pockets the key.

A king-sized bed dominates the master suite. Stepping further into the room, Villanelle spots the broken glass on the floor by the side of the bed and tuts.

The woman lying there has been unconscious for nearly two full days. There’s a saline drip in her left hand. It hangs from a coat hanger taped to the wrought iron headboard of the bed. In her other hand is a canula that Villanelle has been using to administer antibiotics and morphine.

The woman’s eyes are closed, but she’s making soft groaning sounds and the hand with the drip in reaches out blindly. Villanelle steps closer and, avoiding the glass, sits on the edge of the bed.

“Shh. It’s okay.” She tenderly tucks a strand of the woman’s hair behind her ear. “I’ve got you, Eve. I’m going to look after you… You’ll see.”


	2. No Exit Wound

It’s hours later before Eve comes round again. Her mouth is bone dry and her stomach rumbles. The sound is distant and muffled, like she’s under water. Nothing seems real. Not the bed beneath her or her own hand as she brings it up to her face. She closes her eyes to stop the room spinning and fights the urge to be sick.

The last time Eve felt like this was on the ferry to Amsterdam. It had been their third wedding anniversary and Niko had surprised her with a weekend away. The surprise for Eve had been discovering she got terrible sea-sickness.

But that’s not it. The room might be dark, and it might feel like the entire world is shifting around her, but Eve knows she’s not on a boat. She opens her eyes again and fixes her gaze on a spot on the ceiling, focuses her breathing, and tries to put the pieces together. Where is she? Think, Eve! Think!

Rome. Aaron Peel. The operation.

Dribs and drabs come back to her with each deep breath she takes. Hugo. Carolyn… Villanelle. She squeezes her eyes shut as hot tears roll down her cheeks. She shot her. Villanelle shot her.

The day’s events hit her like a speeding train. From waking up in bed, feeling on cloud nine as Villanelle purred good morning in her ear, to turning her back on the younger woman and then hearing the shot; feeling the searing pain in her side, and then… nothing.  
  
Where is she? Has Villanelle taken her somewhere? Did she call an ambulance? Is Eve in the hospital? No. It’s not a hospital room she’s in. Eve is sure of that much. It’s too big and too quiet. There aren’t any machines beeping. There’s an IV in her left hand, but as Eve follows the tubing back to the bag, she sees the wire hanger it’s taped to.  
  
The most surreal thing to Eve is that she isn’t in pain. She remembers the bullet biting into her side. The pain had been immense. She’d felt nothing like it before.  
  
Yet, as she lies in what is certainly not a hospital bed, she feels nothing. Panic washes over her as she considers Villanelle’s bullet might have paralyzed her. She’s a jobless, forty-one-year-old woman, whose husband just left her and now she might be facing paralysis. Who will take care of her?

_‘It’s okay. I’ve got you, Eve. I’m going to look after you… You’ll see.’_

Villanelle’s words from earlier resurface in her mind. Eve can’t be sure if she really heard them, or if she was dreaming. She looks around wildly until she spots Villanelle across the room, curled up in a plush leather chair.  
  
Eve’s heart races so fast at the sight of her that her biggest worry is now cardiac arrest. Her toes curl under the heavy blankets draped over her. She flexes both of her feet before bringing her knees up. Not paralysed then. It’s a sign of how bad her day has been when not being paralysed is the highlight.  
  
Eve keeps her eyes trained on Villanelle as she pushes the blankets off of her. Every breath she takes sounds like the beat of a drum to her ears. Sure the other woman will wake up at any moment, she pulls up her shirt and risks a glance down at her stomach.

There’s nothing there.  
  
“It was a .22. No exit wound.” Eve jumps as she hears the smooth purr of Villanelle’s voice.  
  
“Villanelle…” She gasps, eyes wide in panic. Her first instinct is to flee, but right around the time her feet hit the floor the twisting action wrenches something in her stomach and the pain she was missing rears its ugly head.  
  
She lets out a strangled scream and falls back onto the bed. Villanelle saunters to a mini-fridge by the side of the bed. “I stitched you up. You’ll have a scar. It’s about half an inch. It would have been smaller, but I had to dig the bullet out.” She pulls out a vial of something clear and loads it into a syringe. Eve stiffens as she approaches her.

“What is that?”  
  
“Morphine.” Villanelle answers. She places the syringe down on the bedside table and bends to lift Eve‘s feet back on the bed. The older woman doesn’t fight her. She’s in no shape to take the assassin on.  
  
Villanelle settles Eve back into bed and drapes the covers over her, tucking the blankets under her arms. Resting on the edge of the bed she picks the syringe up and inserts it into the canula in Eve’s right hand.  
  
The instant the plunger goes down Eve feels the relief. Her fear subsides as the room dips out of focus. “There. Don’t you feel better? Didn’t I say I’d look after you?” Villanelle leans over her, brushing her hair back from her face. Her thumb lingers on Eve’s cheek, caressing it lightly.  
  
“You shot me.”  
  
“It was only a .22! And I was far away! You’ll be fine. I will take care of you.”

“Where are we?” Eve‘s eyes close. Her words slur. “How long… have I… out…”

“We’re still in Italy. You’ve been asleep for two days.”

“… Days.”

“Hmm.” Villanelle nods. “You need more rest. Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“That‘s what… afraid… of…”

 

 

“I didn’t hurt Gemma! How many times do I have to tell you people? It was a woman named Villanelle!” Niko Polastri rubs his face with his hands. The Tyvek suit he is wearing rustles and crinkles with his every move.

“Right, the Russian assassin?” The plain clothes detective sitting across from him shoots his partner an amused wink. Niko swallows the urge to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him. He knows how crazy he sounds; how he must look to them.

Two days locked in a storage unit with the dead body of a close friend can fray a man’s nerves. Niko has always been a man of reason, though. He knows the only way to make the detectives listen to him is to stay calm.

It’s easier said than done.

“Yes.” He says. “I only know her as Villanelle. My wife is working for MI6. She has been hunting this woman for some time and she showed up in London a week ago! She came to the storage locker and attacked me and… and she killed Gemma.”  
  
He rubs at his moustache, still spotted with dried blood from his head wound. There’s blood caked under his fingernails and his hand is shaking. He just wants this nightmare to be over.

“Your wife, Eve Polastri. We’ve had some trouble locating her.” The lead detective, a black man in his early forties, glances down at the file in front of him. “The intelligence service has confirmed she works for them, but they won’t say in what capacity. We haven’t actually been able to get in touch with Mrs Polastri.”

“She’s probably off chasing her girlfriend.” Niko grumbles, his attempt at a calm facade slipping at the first mention of Eve. All of this is her fault. Gemma’s death is on her. She brought that psychopath into their lives.

The detective looks pointedly at him. “What do you mean by that?”

Niko lets out a heavy sigh, he has never felt so tired in his life. There’d been no way he could sleep in that storage locker, not next to Gemma’s body. He is running on pure adrenaline and the piss poor coffee the police have been feeding him. He takes a sip of the milky brown sludge from the plastic cup in front of him. It gives him a moment to compose himself.

“Villanelle, she’s obsessed with my wife. That’s why she did this… My wife and I are… we’re recently separated.”

“And that’s why you were staying with Miss Pierson?” The younger detective piped up. His accent wasn’t local. He sounded from somewhere up North, maybe Manchester.

“Yes.” Niko nodded. “Eve and I have been going through a rough patch because of her work. Gemma was kind enough to let me stay with her for a few days. I was putting some of my stuff into storage when Villanelle showed up at the locker. She wanted to know if I still  
loved my wife.”

“And what did you tell her?” The older detective again. He was staring at Niko with the same intense look that Eve got on a Sunday morning when she was mulling over the crossword.

Niko held his gaze. “I said I did… That Eve is still my wife.”

“And she didn’t like that?”

“No.” Niko shook his head, his gaze dropping to the table. The room shifted out of focus as hot tears welled up in his eyes. “No, she didn’t. She said she couldn’t kill me, because Eve would never forgive her. So… so…” The tears finally fall. Niko covers his face with his hands again and heaves out great sobs.  
  
“Mr Polastri-” The lead detective starts but there’s a knock at the door. A uniformed officer walks in and whispers something in his ear. “Alright. Interview ended at ten fifty-six pm. Justin, can you stop the tape?” The younger detective nods and leans over the interview table to switch off the recorder.

“What’s going on?” Niko looks up, with his eyes bloodshot and tears staining his cheeks. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Are they going to charge him? Have they been listening to a damn word he‘s said in the last four hours?

“We’ll be right back, Mr Polastri.” The two men step out of the room, leaving Niko alone with his racing thoughts. None of this feels real. He‘s sure if he just closes his eyes he’ll wake up and this whole sorry affair will be a dream - Eve will be waiting for him at home and Gemma will be alive.

Niko isn’t alone for long. The door opens again after a few minutes, but instead of the detectives - Luther and Ripley they had introduced themselves as - an older woman with a severe expression steps into the room. She wordlessly takes a seat across from him.

“Mr Polastri, do you know who I am?” She asks. Her accent reminds Niko of his friends from Oxford. The woman looks to be in her late fifties. She’ smartly dressed and has an air of authority about her.

“No. I‘m sorry, I don’t.”

A hint of a smile appears on her tightly pressed lips. “My name is Carolyn. I recruited your wife.”

“Carolyn. Right.” The name sounds familiar. Exhaustion is getting the better of him, though, and Niko is struggling to focus on her. “Is Eve here? Does she know what that monster did to Gemma?”

“No, Mr Polastri, Eve isn’t here.” Carolyn sits up straighter in her chair, a feat Niko would have thought impossible given her already impeccable posture.

“I’ve spoken to the detectives who were interviewing you, confirming the assassin you know as Villanelle was in fact in London this week.”

“Where’s Eve?”

“They’re releasing you. Someone will be along shortly to take you home.” Her tone is all business as she ignores his question. She doesn’t look like someone used to being interrupted.

“Where is my wife?” Niko raises his voice this time.

Carolyn doesn’t react with so much as a wince. She looks him straight in the eyes and says, “I’m afraid your wife is dead.” The words hit Niko like physical blows, knocking him back in his seat. His mouth hangs open as he gapes at this woman who has just destroyed his world with one sentence.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No! That’s not right! That can’t be-”

“Mr Polastri, Niko, please listen to me.” Carolyn leans over the table and reaches out, though she stops just short of touching him. “I am sorry to have to say this, but Eve is dead.”

“How?” Niko chokes out the word, but he isn‘t sure he wants to know. Maybe part of him already does, he just doesn’t want to hear it out loud.

“She was on a routine surveillance operation in Rome. Villanelle showed up unexpectedly. She shot one of my operatives and took Eve with her.” The lie falls smoothly from Carolyn’s tongue.

“So she took her? That doesn’t mean she’s dead! She could be-” A lump forms in his throat at the thought of what that vile creature could be doing to his wife right now.

Carolyn‘s expression softens. “I’m afraid we found evidence to the contrary. There was a rather large pool of blood that was identified as Eve’s. Too much for her to survive losing. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

 

 

“Well, that went about as well as could be expected.” Carolyn announces as the door of the interrogation room clicks shut behind her. Kenny stands by the door with the same sombre expression he’s been wearing since Rome.

“Do you really think Eve’s dead?” He asks, not for the first time, as they walk out of the East London police station. “I mean, we didn’t find her body.”

“No, we just found a large pool of blood and the shell casing of a .22.” Carolyn rolls her eyes in dismissal. “The same calibre of gun Konstantin admitted giving to Villanelle before she went chasing after Eve.”

Kenny shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts, slouching forward with a sulk. Carolyn fights the urge to tut at him. “Honestly, Kenny…”

The younger man halts in the middle of the car park. “Do you even care? Eve was our friend.”

Carolyn doesn’t miss a beat with her answer. She doesn’t raise her voice to match Kenny’s. Instead she stares him down, and with a level tone says, “Eve Polastri chose to walk away. Dead or alive, she made her own bed. Now she has to lie in it.”


	3. Blame the Victim

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Eve comes round for the second time as Villanelle perches on the side of her bed. She sets a plate on the bedside table and then turns her attention back to Eve, lightly running her fingers through her hair.

“Don’t touch me.” Eve growls at her. She tries to roll on to her side, away from the other woman’s touch, but the searing pain promptly reminds her of her limitations.

“You’re hurting. I’ll get your medicine.” Villanelle reaches over to the mini-fridge by the side of the bed to retrieve the morphine.

“No!” Eve grabs blindly at her wrist.

“You need it.” Villanelle insists. “For the pain.”

“I don’t want it… it’s making me nauseous… everything feels fuzzy.”

“Okay. I’ll see what else I have. Wait here. Try to eat something. I made you eggs and bacon.” She picks up the plate and places it on Eve’s lap. “Lots of protein, to get your strength up. I told you I will take care of you.”

“I feel sick.” Eve pushes the plate away with a grunt. Her stomach thinks it’s cut off from her throat, but it’s a matter of principle. She won’t be a good little patient while Villanelle plays doctor.

Eve doesn’t miss the way the corners of her mouth tighten, her smile becoming strained as she stands. “I’ll see if there’s something to settle your stomach.” Villanelle walks out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.

Thoughts of escape flash through Eve’s mind, but just trying to sit up is a struggle. The pain in her side is a constant dull ache that grows into a sharp stabbing pain with every movement she makes.

The only thing more pervasive than the pain is the wafting scent of freshly cooked bacon. With a furtive glance at the door She picks up a rasher and takes a bite. It tastes like heaven.

Forgetting her principles, Eve picks up the fork on the side of the plate and begins shovelling scrambled egg into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in a week. She’s reluctant to admit it, but they might be the best eggs she’s ever had. Maybe Villanelle stopped to abduct a chef while she was dragging Eve’s unconscious body to wherever the hell she’s holding her.

She’s finished eating by the time Villanelle gets back. The younger woman spots the empty plate but says nothing of it. She doesn’t have to. The triumphant smile tugging at the corner of her lips says it all.

Round one to Villanelle.

“I have Fentanyl or Demerol.” She holds up the two glass vials for Eve to choose from, as if asking her to compare two fine wines.

“Do you know how many people overdose on Fentanyl?” Eve glares at her. “It’s like a hundred times more potent than morphine.”

“Okay. This one it is.” Villanelle pockets the Fentanyl and pulls out a disposable syringe from the drawer of the bedside cabinet. She removes the cap with her teeth and fills the syringe with practised ease. Eve doesn’t want to think of how many people Villanelle might have killed this way.

Quick. Quiet. Effective.

“You shouldn’t have injected me with anything when I was out. What if I’d been allergic?”

“I had it covered!” Villanelle says, with her usual air of confidence. “I’ve got one of those pen things. For anaphylactic shock.”

Eve frowns. “Did you rob a hospital or something?”

“Yes.” Villanelle answers with a nod and a proud smile. “Where do you think I got the IV? I got everything you’d need. Painkillers, antibiotics, blood-”  
“Blood?”

“Yes. You lost a lot of yours. I didn’t know your blood type, but the doctor I found in the Haematology lab was so helpful! He told me I could give you O negative if it was an emergency! What is your blood type, anyway? So I can be sure for next time.”

“Next time you shoot me?” Eve glares at her.

“I’m not going to shoot you again!” She rolls her eyes like Eve is being dramatic. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Eve, but you made me so mad… You make me feel all kinds of things.” Villanelle inserts the needle into the cannula in her right hand and pushes the plunger. Eve feels a tingling rush through her hand, and then the sweet relief of the pain easing without the room spinning.

“Sure, blame the victim.”

Villanelle pointedly ignores her. Pulling out the needle she puts the cap back on and places it on the bedside table. Eve’s eyes track it the whole time.

“You ate. That’s good. I brought water too. You need to keep your fluids up. Then we can take the IV out.” The younger woman fusses, moving the empty plate from Eve’s bed and straightening her sheets.

“Go fuck yourself.”

That gets her attention. Villanelle stops, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. For a fraction of a second her anger is plain to see, but she blinks and it’s gone. She smooths her features into a practised smile.

“Eve, language!” She taps the older woman on the nose like she’s a misbehaving child and Eve has to bite back the urge to sink her teeth into her retreating finger.

“It’s okay, Baby. I know you’re grumpy-”  
“Grumpy!” Snaps Eve. “I’m not grumpy, I’m pissed! You fucking shot me!”

“And now I am fixing you!” Villanelle hurls back. “Which is more than you did for me when you stabbed me!”

“I tried to help you, until you started shooting at me! Is that what you think this is? Do you think ‘fixing’ me will make everything okay between us? That you’ll patch me up and we’ll run away to Alaska together?”

“Don’t.”

“Nothing has changed, Villanelle! You shooting me and then taking care of me doesn’t change a god-damn thing! You can’t change me into something to suit you!”

“Eve, stop…” Villanelle growls a second warning at her. She can feel her blood boiling with every word. She isn’t used to these kinds of intense emotions, she doesn’t know how to handle them without violence; and that would defeat the purpose. She’s supposed to be showing Eve she can look after her, keep her safe - not cause her more harm.

“You’re wasting your time, Oksana! You might as well finish what you started!” Tears flow freely down Eve’s cheeks as the truth tumbles out of her mouth. “Because I will never love you… and you’re not capable of love!”

Villanelle stands over her bed, physically shaking with the effort of controlling herself. She presses her lips in to a tight smile, “You’re wrong, Eve.”

With that she gathers up Eve’s breakfast plate and the empty glass vial of Demerol and storms out, slamming the door behind her. Eve watches it for a few moments, waiting to see if she’ll come back.

When she doesn’t, Eve makes her move. Her hand scrambles for the used syringe lying on the bedside table. She tucks it out of sight under her pillow, storing it for when it might come in useful.

 

* * *

 

 

Kenny shifts the paper bag of grapes he’s holding from one hand to the other as he holds open the door to the hospital ward for an elderly woman. “Thanks, Son.”

“You’re welcome.”

The Royal London is the UK’s leading trauma hospital and where Hugo ended up after getting shot. Kenny had been part of the cleanup team that went into the hotel. He’d found Hugo lying on the floor, bleeding out, and barely conscious. He still can’t believe Eve left him like that.

“Hey, you.” Hugo greets him as Kenny walks into his private side room. He’s propped up on a stack of pillows and his colour looks better than it did a few days ago.

“Hey.” Kenny hovers awkwardly by the door. He and Hugo aren’t friends, but watching a man bleed out has a way of changing how you see them.

“Well, don’t just stand there, you’re making the place look untidy.” The other man seems in good spirits as he ushers Kenny to take a seat.

“These are for you.” Kenny says stiffly and hands over the paper bag full of grapes.

“Thanks… I’ll use them to make hooch in the toilet later.” Hugo jokes, back to his jovial self.

“Okay. Cool.”

“That was a joke, Kenny. I Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, I know you pulled through the surgery, I just wanted to see for myself that you’re… okay.” Kenny shifts nervously in his seat, wringing his fingers together as he glances around the room. He hates hospitals. From the sterile smell to the overbearing lights and the flashing and beeping of the machines.

“I pulled through, no thanks to Eve.” Hugo’s mirth disappears as his expression twists into something of disgust. He shakes his head, his boyish curls falling limply onto his forehead. “She just left me there. I hope her and her psychopath are very happy together… What?”

He doesn’t miss the way Kenny’s eyes fall to the ground, or the swell of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. His voice is quiet and strained when he finally answers. “Eve’s dead. Villanelle shot her.”

The admission hits Hugo like a solid punch to the gut. He sinks back against the pillows with a sigh. He rubs his hand over his mouth and the three days’ growth on his chin.

Kenny has never seen him with stubble. The Oxford man is usually so well dressed and groomed. To see him so dishevelled is almost as bad as it was seeing him bleeding out on that hotel floor.

“Shit…” Hugo mutters, more to himself than in response to Kenny. He tips his head back and scrunches his eyes up, trying not to cry. His whole face goes red, until he finally lets out a strangled sob and covers his eyes with the back of his arm.

Kenny stands but then stops. He doesn’t know what to do. Elena would have known, or Bill - or even Eve - but they’re gone now. Kenny is the only one left, and that terrifies him.

He takes a few tentative steps towards the bed and places his hand on Hugo’s shoulder. “I’m sorry… I’m not very good at this stuff-” Kenny tenses as the other man turns to him, grabs a fistful of his polo shirt and buries his face in his chest.

“Um… should I call someone?” Kenny stands stiffly, at a loss for what he should do.

“No.” Hugo sniffs and shakes his head. “No, I’ll be okay in a minute.” He eases himself back with a groan, his eyes red raw and still glistening with tears.

“It’s a shock. I mean, she left me there, but still… It’s Eve. She didn’t deserve that.”

“No. She didn’t.”

An uneasy silence settles between them as Kenny sits back down. It stretches on for so long that Kenny considers clearing his throat and announcing he needs to go.

“I slept with her. Eve. That first night in Rome.” Kenny isn’t sure why Hugo feels the need to share this with him, but he does his best not to let his face twist in disgust. Eve’s like a mother to him; a second - albeit it just as scary and intense - but still sort of nice, mother.

“Oh. Okay.”

Hugo’s confession isn’t anywhere near done. “She initiated it, woke me up in the middle of the night. I thought all my Christmases had come at once.” He lets out a hollow laugh.

“Only, it wasn’t me she was fucking. Not really. She had Villanelle whispering in her ear all night… Eve should never have been on that operation. She was far too close. We both know she was spiralling long before Rome.”

“I tried to warn her.” Kenny admits. “I knew what Mum and Konstantin were planning. I tried to tell Eve not to go, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have, would she? Unless it was about her precious little assassin! I can’t believe that crazy bitch murdered her.”

“Neither can I.” Kenny speaks up, finally tearing his gaze from the floor. There’s a confidence to his words as he stares Hugo down. “Mum doesn’t want to hear it, but I don’t think Villanelle would kill Eve. I - I don’t think she’s dead, Hugo, and no one will listen to me!”

“I am. Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know…” Kenny’s confidence wavers again as he holds his head in his hands. “There has to be a way to prove it, one way or another. It’s hard to do anything when I’ve got Mum slinking over my shoulder at home and at work. I can’t stand to be in the same room as her. It’s like she doesn’t even care about Eve, even though they were friends.”

“Kenny, people like your mum, they don’t have friends.”

“Neither do I. They all keep leaving; or dying.”

“Chin up, mate. I’m still here.” Hugo offers him a smug grin, then sobers. “I mean it. Whatever you need to find out the truth about Eve. And I’ve got a perfectly good spare room if you need some space from the Momster.”

“Really?” Kenny perks up, feeling the closest thing to hope since before Eve fired him. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“Don’t mention it. My flat keys are in the drawer. Make yourself at home. I’ll be out in two days. You can be my home help.” He laughs with a wink. “Maybe we could get you a cute little nurse’s outfit?”

“That’s not happening, Hugo.”

 

* * *

 

 

Carolyn Martens takes a seat at a corner table in the Wetherspoons at Victoria Station. It’s a busy weekday, and the pub is loud and crowded. A gin and tonic is waiting for her on the table. Across from her sits a familiar weathered face.  
  
“Carolyn. I wish I could say it was good to see you my old friend, but I’d have rather never seen you again. No offence.”

“None taken.” Carolyn picks up her drink and takes a long sip. It’s a strong double, just how she likes it. “How’s the family?”

“They are safe. How is yours?”

Carolyn sniffs as she picks at an imaginary bit of lint from her shoulder. “Kenny’s still sulking about. He takes after his father.”

Konstantin guffaws at that. “He’s a nice kid. If he has any sense, he’ll get far away from you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why did you call me here, Carolyn?”

“Villanelle fled Rome thanks to you. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Yes, I am.” Konstantin nods. “I agreed to set her up, not to let you kill her.”

“Instead, she killed Eve. With the gun you gave her. Perhaps she’ll come for you next.”

“Or you.” He counters with a lazy smile. He swirls the melting ice in his own drink before taking a gulp. “Villanelle will come for me in time. And if Eve Polastri is dead, then it will be sooner rather than later.”

“Why did you do it? You had to know she’d come for you. We could have tied this little mess up neatly.”

Konstantin stares in to his drink with a sour expression and runs a hand through his beard. He rests his chin on his hand. “I knew the risks in helping her. Unlike you, I’m not so careful with my love.”

“She isn’t your child, Konstantin.” Carolyn frowns. “Is she?”

“No. She isn’t; but I was the one who pulled her out of prison. I trained her. Nurtured her. She is like a child to me. A very obnoxious one. Villanelle will come for me, and you too, and we will both deserve it.” He raises his glass with a wry smile. “Na Zdorovie.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I brought you dinner. It’s spaghetti.” Villanelle places the plastic tray she’s carrying on Eve’s lap with a flourish and an expectant look.

“Thanks.” Eve has decided to play along, at least for now. It’s dark outside, and she’s spent most of the day planning how she can escape this nightmare. She might not have the details ironed out yet, but she knows that any hope of getting out of this starts with her playing nice with Villanelle.

Pleased with the response, the younger woman’s eyes seem to brighten. “Here, let me take this out for you.” She perches on the side of the bed and removes the cannula from her left wrist, the one connected to the nearly empty IV bag. A drop of blood wells up as the needle comes out.

Villanelle pulls a plaster out of her back pocket and swiftly applies it to the back of Eve’s hand. “There.” She brings it up to her lips and presses a kiss to the plaster. “Much better.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Eve picks up her fork and stabs at the spaghetti before twirling it around and scooping up a mouthful. Villanelle watches her eat in rapt fascination, like the way Eve’s mouth is moving is a religious experience. “Aren’t you eating too?”

“I already ate… Do you want to watch a movie? Together.”

“Uh, not right now. I’m beat. I just want to finish eating and get some sleep.”

“Oh.” Villanelle can’t hide her disappointment, it’s written over her face. “Okay. You’re right. You need your rest. I’ll come check on you in a little while. Do you need anything?”

“No.” Eve shakes her head and forces a smile worthy of an Oscar as she grips the stolen syringe, in her free hand, under the blankets. “No, I’m good.”

Villanelle leaves her to it. The door clicks shut behind her with a soft thud. Eve wastes no time in pushing the covers away from her and easing her feet to the floor.

Villanelle came in to give her a top up of painkillers a few hours ago and they’re still coursing through her. Her movements are stiff and jerky as she stands up, using the headboard to pull herself up. The skin around her wound feels like its being pulled taught as she takes a step.

The room is sparse, apart from the king size bed, the side table and the mini-fridge where Villanelle is keeping her pain medication. There isn’t much else in the room, just a dresser and a thick rug covering most of the stone floor.

The coarse wool of the rug scratches at her feet as she takes a few tentative steps. The Demerol doesn’t have her spaced out as much as the Morphine did, but it’s still like walking on the moon as she stumbles her way towards the dresser.

It seems to take an eternity before she’s leaning against it, catching her breath and waiting for a second wind. The tugging at her wound is growing sharper and a dull ache has settled in her back.

The door Villanelle just left through is definitely out of the question, that only leaves the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. She shuffles over to it and grasps the handle with both hands.

It slides open freely and the brisk night air hits her square in the face as it does. It’s only now that Eve bothers to take in how she’s dressed. She’s wearing an over-sized man’s t-shirt that hangs past her thighs and nothing else. Her feet are bare and a quick glance around the room doesn’t reveal her shoes, or any change of clothes.

She steps out onto the balcony regardless, shivering as the cold wind blows through the thin cotton shirt. A pockmarked wooden railing encloses the balcony. Eve grips it tightly as she leans over to take in how high up she is.

It’s hard to tell with the blanket of snow covering the ground below, but if she had to guess she’d say she was at least three storeys up. Too far to drop - even without a gunshot wound - and nothing to climb down.

Even if she could make it to the ground, what then? In her current state, she’d get maybe twenty feet without keeling over in the snow. Hypothermia, or more likely Villanelle, would get her long before she made it to the nearest house; which is barely a speck in the distance.

Disheartened, Eve shuffles back inside, sliding the glass door shut behind her. Climbing back into bed is more difficult than getting out had been.

She’s breathless and irritated by the time she finally settles back in. How the hell did Villanelle travel across the channel a few days after Eve stabbed her? While Eve can barely make it across the room without passing out.

She’s not trained for this shit, she’s a former MI5 threat analyst playing at James Bond. To say she’s out of her depth is an understatement.

Villanelle returns, as promised, an hour later. Eve has cleared most of her plate and is dozing off as the door opens. She doesn’t open her eyes as Villanelle moves in closer.

“Eve?” She whispers. “Eve, are you awake?”

“Hmm.”

“It’s time for more medicine.” Villanelle lifts Eve’s right arm from under the covers with the care of a mother nursing a sickly child. Taking out the needle she pre-loaded from her pocket she pulls the cap off with her teeth and then presses it into the injection port of Eve’s cannula.

The powerful analgesics flood through Eve’s system at rapid speed, numbing the pain in her side while making it near impossible for her to stay awake.

Villanelle sits by her side a moment, idly stroking her hair, until a cool draft catches her attention.

She tuts as she stands and crosses to the balcony door, closing it all the way. Eve follows the sound of her voice as she crosses to the dresser to fetch an extra blanket. “You need to be more careful, Eve. We don’t want you catching a cold, now do we?”

“Can you blame me for trying?” Eve’s voice is low and husky. She’s on the verge of passing out.

“Of course not. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” Villanelle coos from above as she drapes the blanket over her. Eve rolls over, cracks one eye open, and grabs Villanelle’s wrist.

“Why are you doing this? Why… Why are you taking care of me?”

Villanelle’s expression softens into something mirroring concern. She squeezes Eve’s hand before tucking it back under the blanket. “Because that’s what you do for people you love, Eve. And I love you, even if you don’t believe me yet… I will show you.”


	4. The job comes first

The house is empty when Kenny gets home. It’s how he expected it to be. His mother is rarely home before six on a weekday.

Kenny heads straight for the sanctuary of his room and gets the old suitcase from under his bed. There’s too much in the room to pack into one small suitcase and Hugo’s spare room isn’t a permanent solution to his current housing problem.

He packs the essentials; clothes, toothbrush and a comb, and his laptop. The case goes in the back of his car, followed by as much of his computer equipment as he can manage to fit.

Kenny’s putting the last bits in the boot when his mother’s car pulls up in the drive. He’d been hoping to avoid confronting her. Resigning himself to his fate with a sigh, he waits for her to park up and step out the car.

“Kenny.” She greets him as if they’re passing in the corridor at work. “Are you heading out?”

“I’m leaving.” He announces, doing his best to stand up straight. “I’m moving out.”

“I see.” Carolyn doesn’t react to the declaration.

“I need space... and time to think.” Kenny elaborates. His mother’s unwavering stare always has a way of making him babble.

“Right.” Carolyn nods. “I suppose that’s for the best. Take as long as you need. You know where I am.” Kenny isn’t sure what he was expecting, but her disinterest is hardly a surprise. She doesn’t ask where he’s going, so he doesn’t offer the information.

If she wants to find him, she will.

“Okay. Well, bye then.” He climbs into his car, but before he can close the door Carolyn moves and is holding the door handle. Her other hand rests on the roof as she leans into the open door.

Her expression is unreadable. The last time Kenny saw her looking so ill at ease she’d been telling him his grandfather died.

“Kenny, I regret what happened with Eve. I liked her. She had potential. I might have considered her a friend… but the job comes first.”

Kenny looks her square in the eye as he starts the ignition and pulls the door shut with a firm tug. “It always does.”

Hugo’s ‘flat’ in Chelsea turns out to be a three-bedroom penthouse in the exclusive Chelsea Harbour. It must cost at least ten grand a month. A concierge stops him in the reception, but one mention of Hugo’s name and the guy is helping him load his stuff into the lift.

“Tell Hugo I’m asking after him. Top bloke that lad.” The concierge slaps him on the back before pressing the button for the penthouse for him. Kenny mumbles his thanks.

The lift opens into a long hallway painted a neutral egg shell white. Family photos line the walls, most showing Hugo, his mother and father, and a younger sister. Kenny can’t remember him mentioning having a sister, though it’s not as if they’ve shared much small talk at the office.

Kenny gets his stuff out of the lift and leaves it in the hallway while he checks out the rest of the flat. The first door he tries, at the end of the corridor, is a coat closet.   
  
Two doors flank the closet, Kenny opens the one on the right and finds it’s the master bedroom. Inside there’s an open door leading to an immaculate en-suite bathroom. 

A queen-sized bed fills most of the back wall, with a flat screen TV dominating the wall facing it. The far wall is a bank of windows, opening up on to a balcony with a view of the harbour.

The room across the hall is smaller and faces onto the street, it has a double bed in it and Kenny assumes it’s the guest room. He moves his stuff in before he continues his tour.

Further up the hall, across from the lift, is a third smaller room that’s set up as a study, with an antique desk and leather swivelling office chair in one corner and bookshelves in the other.

Kenny reads a handful of the titles. He expects books on picking up women or boosting your ego to exponential levels, but he’s surprised to find none.

There are the classics, such as Orwell’s ‘1984’ and ‘To Killing a Mocking Bird’. Then there are books on philosophy, psychology and criminology. A well-read book on Queer Theory catches Kenny’s eye.

Not the stuff he’d imagine a shallow prick like Hugo reading. Maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye. The apartment is overly neat for a single young man. Kenny feels he’s making the place untidy just by standing there.

He goes back to his new room and starts setting up his computer equipment. Once he’s connected to the internet, and he has his firewalls and proxy servers set up, he logs on to the MI-6 database. Using his mother’s credentials he searches for every scrap of information he can find on what happened in Rome.   
  
  


Eve thinks she’s making remarkable progress, given that she was only shot five days ago. She’s made it out of her bed and across the room to the en-suite bathroom, and halfway back again.

The halfway back is the problem. She’s still ten feet from the bed and splayed out on the floor. Her side is aching, and she’s out of breath. She’s been lying there for five solid minutes, but she refuses to call for help. She’s determined to get back into bed without relying on Villanelle.

The choice is taken from her as the door opens. “Eve! What are you doing?” Villanelle rushes to her. She’s wearing sweatpants and an over-sized sweater, neither of which belong to her. It’s the most casual Eve has ever seen her dressed, and Eve’s seen her in nothing more than a silk robe.

“I wanted a nap.” Eve says with a huff.

“You have a perfectly good bed! You shouldn’t be out of it!” Villanelle hooks her hands under Eve’s armpits and helps to ease her to her feet.  
  
“I needed to pee.”

“That’s what I gave you the bell for!” Villanelle had given her the little silver bell sitting on the bedside table for when she needed to go. So far, Eve has refused to use it.   
  
“I don’t need you to take me to the bathroom like I’m five years old!”

“Clearly you do.” Villanelle chides her as she picks Eve clean off her feet. Eve wraps her arms around her neck as she carries her over to the bed. Villanelle places her on the mattress with exaggerated delicacy, as if Eve might shatter and break if she’s not careful with her.

“I made it to the bathroom. So, clearly I don’t.” It’s petulant, but Eve can’t help herself. When it comes to Villanelle, every little thing is a battle she can’t afford to lose.

“I guess you did. Good for you!” Villanelle laughs, and the sound is light and carefree. It’s infectious. A smile tugs at the corner of Eve’s lips before she lets out a soft chuckle of her own.

“Fuck off, Villanelle!” She snaps, but there’s no menace to her words. She tosses her head back against the mountain of pillows Villanelle has provided for her. “God, I’m so bored. I’ve been lying here for three days!”

“It’s been five days. How do you think I felt? It was so boring waiting for you to wake up! You haven’t been much fun awake either.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more entertaining while I’m recovering from being shot!”

“There is a TV in my room. I could get it for you?” Villanelle offers, ignoring Eve’s sarcasm in favour of easing their mutual boredom.

“Sure.”

Villanelle leaves the room and returns carrying a forty-two inch television on a stand. She moves the chest of drawers to the bottom of the bed and sets the TV up there. It’s a Smart TV, so Eve won’t have to watch Italian television that she can’t understand a word of.

“Would you like some company?”

“No.” Eve says, mostly out of spite. “I wouldn’t, but it’s not like I can stop you.” The younger woman takes that as an invitation and climbs onto the bed, settling in beside her. The bed is big enough so they don’t have to touch, but Villanelle lies only a hair’s breadth away from her.

Eve tries not to think of the first time they shared a bed together. Villanelle lies on her side, facing away from Eve, as she fiddles with the remote - trying to access her Netflix account. Her sweatshirt rides up, revealing a pale thin line of scarring on her stomach where Eve plunged her own knife in her. 

She reaches out before she can stop herself, running her fingers across the scar. Villanelle strikes with the speed of a snapping snake.

In one fluid motion, she turns and grabs Eve’s wrist. Her nostrils flair as her chest heaves. Her eyes are wide and alert, but they’re looking right through Eve.

“Easy!” Eve holds up her free hand. “Easy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“No. I’m sorry.” Villanelle apologises. “You startled me. Here.” She moves her hand, lacing her fingers through Eve’s, and brings it to rest on her stomach. Eve should pull away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she runs her fingers along the scar again, her movements more sure.

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little. I think it’s the cold weather. It didn’t hurt anymore in London.”

“We should go back to London then.” Eve bites the inside of her cheek. Her play is transparent, but it’s the only one she’s got. Villanelle sees right through it.

“No. We shouldn’t.” Villanelle lets her hand slide free from Eve’s and the older woman can see her walls coming back up as her expression grows aloof. Eve is losing her attention, and her trust.

She props herself up on her side so she can face Villanelle, even though lying like that tugs on her stitches. The pain is sharp. It helps her focus. “When did you know you were different from other people?”

The question takes Villanelle by surprise. She studies Eve carefully, as if looking for a telltale sign on her face she’s playing an angle. She mustn’t find one, because she answers, “I always knew. I differed from the other children, the ones in the orphanage-”

“Orphanage?” Eve rounds on the word. She’d learnt from Anna that Villanelle’s mother was dead, but she hadn’t realised her father was dead too, or that she’d grown up an orphan. “How old were you when your parents died?”

Eve knows little about the younger woman’s past. Every scrap of information she has dug up or drew out was hard earned and well deserved. Eve is a dragon hoarding precious treasures, only it isn’t gold or trinkets she's squirrelling away, but knowledge.

“My mother died when I was seven. She had cancer.” Villanelle tells her in such a matter-of-fact way. There’s no emotion in her voice, no sign of grief or loss. “My father was murdered when I was seventeen.”

“How?” Eve pushes and leans in closer, waiting on her answer. She can’t make do with scraps anymore. She needs to know everything about the enigma that is the young, vibrant woman lying beside her. Eve is too far down the rabbit hole to turn back now.

“He was a war hero. When my mother died, they sent him to Chechnya. I couldn’t go with him, so I went to an orphanage. He went away again when I was ten, and I ended up back at the orphanage.” Villanelle answers one question while avoiding the other. Eve doesn’t miss the way she plays with the ring on her thumb.

“That is until I set the dormitory on fire and they shipped me off to the psyche hospital.” She tries to make a joke, but Eve can see she’s uncomfortable talking about her childhood; about her father in particular.

“You said someone killed your father… did you do it?”

“I hated that hospital, and those fucking doctors-”

“Villanelle.” Eve reaches her hand out slowly to cup her face, like she might approach a wounded animal. She tries her best not to glance at her mouth, but fails as Villanelle’s tongue darts out between her lips. “Talk to me. What happened to your father?”

“He started moonlighting for gangsters. He stole from them and they killed him.” Her tone is hard and there’s an edge to her words, an anger that Eve has heard before.

_Are you going to apologise to me?_

“The man who shot him, he was my very first kill.” The anger disappears, replaced by something close to euphoria as her eyes widen and she becomes lost in a distant memory. She’s looking right at Eve, but not seeing her anymore.

“I cut his throat, right to the bone. It was amazing seeing him die, watching him choke on his own blood as the light in his eyes faded. It didn’t leave him though… I swear it just went further in.”

She’s excited.

Eve can see it written plain as day across her expressive face as her eyes dart to Eve’s lips. She looks just as she did when Eve was hacking Raymond to pieces back at the hotel; jittery with nervous excitement.

Eve hadn’t been excited or amazed by her first kill. Taking a life had left her traumatised, but now that most of the initial shock has worn off she just feels numb.

This is the real Villanelle; the woman Eve has been chasing for what seems a lifetime, though it was less than six short months ago that Frank hauled her and Bill into a Saturday briefing over the death of Victor Kedrin.

“I’m tired.” Eve blurts out as Villanelle dips her head, intending to kiss her. She grazes Eve’s cheek as the older woman turns her head.

“Okay. I will come back and check on you later.” Villanelle nods, her eyes clearing. She leans forward, pressing her lips to Eve’s forehead before getting to her feet. “Sweet dreams, baby.” The door closes behind her with a soft click. She doesn’t lock it. Eve’s in no shape to reach the door.

She waits a full minute to make sure Villanelle isn’t lingering on the other side of the door before she reaches under her pillow, pulling out the needle she stashed there. There’s no weight to it, but the point is sharp and it’s better than nothing.

Villanelle nearly killed her once, she can’t fall for her charms again. Eve can’t drop her guard. She’s not a guest here, she’s a prisoner and she can’t afford to forget that.

True to her word, Villanelle comes back to check on Eve after a few hours. She’s carrying a tray with two bowls of hot soup and a stack of thick uneven slices of bread that don’t appear to be store-bought. Villanelle catches her staring. “I made bread!” She announces cheerfully

“It’s good.” Eve admits after taking a bite. It’s stodgy, but Eve isn’t about to critique a psychopath’s cooking skills.

“Thank you.”

The soup is a thick vegetable broth. It’s nothing to write home about, but the warm bread makes it a meal. The two women eat in a comfortable silence, Eve sitting in the bed while Villanelle perches on the side. There’s a perfectly good armchair beside the bed, but Villanelle ignores it in favour of being closer to Eve.

“That was great. Thank you.” Eve says as she hands her empty bowl to Villanelle. She stacks it on top of her own before returning it the tray.

“You’re welcome. Did you get any sleep?”

“Yes.” Lied Eve. She had tossed and turned for an hour before giving up on sleeping altogether. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Raymond’s anguished face, saw herself standing over his writhing body, holding that axe.

“That’s good.” The air between them is thick with unspoken words - and some that have been said out loud.

_I love you._

The pregnant silence bothers Villanelle more than it does Eve. “Would you like a bath?” She asks. Now that she’s said it, Eve can think of nothing she wants more in the world. Her hair is limp and greasy against her scalp and Raymond’s blood remains caked under her nails.

A bath sounds ideal but the thought of dragging herself across the room again is daunting; never-mind getting in and out of the bathtub. “I don’t think I have the energy right now. Maybe in the morning?”  
  
“I could help you?”

“I can wash myself, Villanelle.”

“No. You can’t, you can barely make it to the bathroom on your own! You could drown without my help.” Eve is already drowning with her, and Villanelle is the one pulling them both under. She has a point though.   
  
Sensing she’s getting through to her, Villanelle adds, “Besides, I’ve seen you naked. It’s not a big deal. You have a great body.”

“Fine.” Eve relents. Villanelle goes off to run the bath, leaving her sitting on the bed and questioning her life choices. Villanelle returns to fetch her a few minutes later, once the bathtub is full.

“How do you want to-” Eve starts to ask how Villanelle intends to get her into the bathroom, but she doesn’t get the chance to finish as the younger woman scoops her up bridal-style.

Villanelle carries her into the bathroom like she weighs next to nothing and gently places her sitting on the toilet, having already lowered the lid. “You’re stronger than you look.” Eve lets out a nervous laugh. Villanelle carrying her a few steps to the bed had been one thing, but transporting her across the room was another.

“I know. Now, let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“I can do it myself.” Eve frowns and slaps her hands away as Villanelle reaches for the hem of the bed-shirt she’s wearing.

“Okay.” Villanelle shrugs at her. She takes a step back and crosses her arms, waiting for Eve to undress.

“Could you not stare at me?” Eve snaps, starting to get embarrassed as Villanelle’s eyes linger on her.

“Sorry…” It’s far from a heartfelt apology, but at least she has the good graces to look away. Eve tackles her underwear first. She tries to stand up so she can pull them over her thighs, but she’s rewarded with another stabbing pain in her side for her efforts.

“Fuck.” She grunts through gritted teeth and bites her lip as she realises she needs help. With a heavy sigh she tugs on Villanelle’s sleeve. “I need help.”

Villanelle kneels and slips her hands under Eve’s over sized bed-shirt. Eve stiffens and her hands find Villanelle’s shoulders as the other woman’s fingers brush against the inside of her thighs. A rush of blood colours Eve’s cheeks.

Villanelle removes Eve’s underwear with practised ease, teasing them over her thighs before tugging them down her legs. Eve gives a shaky breath and removes her hands from Villanelle’s shoulders, allowing her to stand again.

Eve pulls her shirt up over her head before she can change her mind about the whole affair. She covers her modest chest with her arms, feeling much more exposed than the last time she was naked in front of Villanelle. She had been a relative stranger back then, and Eve had been unaware of just how deep Villanelle’s infatuation ran; or her own.

She’s being held captive in the alps by the psychopath who shot her and all Eve can think about is when she last shaved her legs. It’s laughable, but then everything about Eve’s life has been absurd since Villanelle came into it.

“Ready?” Villanelle waits for Eve’s confirmation - which comes in the form of a shy nod - before scooping her up again and placing her into the claw-footed tub. The bath is longer and wider than the one Eve has at home, even stretched out, with her head resting on the edge of the tub, her toes don’t reach the other side.

The bubbles afford her a touch of modesty and make it seem like she’s less exposed as she sinks under them. The warm water soothes the aches and pains she has all over her body, though her side still throbs.   
  
Villanelle kneels beside the bath and picks up a sponge from the side. She dips it in the water before lathering it with soap. It smells like honey and almonds. Eve sighs as she sits forward and Villanelle scrubs her back.

She works slowly and methodically over Eve’s full body, like she’s committing every inch to memory. As her hand dips between Eve’s legs she clenches her thighs, trapping Villanelle’s wrist and stopping her from moving any higher up. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Eve, what do you take me for?” She feigns innocence, but her expression is anything but. Eve glares, but releases her wrist. Villanelle goes lower, instead of higher and Eve cringes as the sponge slides over the week old hairs on her legs. She makes a mental note to look for a razor once she can get in and out of the bathroom herself.

After washing Eve’s body, Villanelle moves on to her hair. She pours a generous dollop of sweet smelling shampoo on to the top of her head and spreads it from roots to tips. Eve’s eyes close of their own accord and she only just manages to bit back a soft moan as Villanelle massages her scalp with skilled fingers. Her mind wanders, imagining where else those deft fingers could go to work.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” Villanelle mutters, absorbed in her work. “Ever since I saw you in that hospital bathroom.”

“I’ve always wanted a psychopath to shoot me.” Comes Eve’s sarcastic reply. Villanelle ignores her and carries on with the task at hand, rinsing the shampoo from Eve’s hair.

“Has your husband ever washed your hair for you?”

“No, but he’s never shot me either.”

“But have you ever stabbed him?” The question is like a knife straight to the gut. Eve swallows, taking her time in answering.

“No.”

They lapse into silence while Villanelle finishes seeing to her hair. She wraps it up in a hand towel before lifting Eve out of the tub. Eve’s soaking wet body presses against her, wetting the front of her shirt. Villanelle doesn’t seem to mind as she helps support the older woman to stand up while she wraps a towel around her.

Eve sits down on the toilet again and dries herself. Villanelle fetches her clean pyjamas, comprising of a long sleeve t-shirt and bottoms with tiny penguins on them. Eve doesn’t know where she might have gotten them. She doesn’t ask, just pulls the shirt over her head and wrangles her arms through the holes.

She sits with the towel still wrapped around her waist, trying to catch her breath. Even with Villanelle’s help bathing has left her exhausted. Villanelle kneels and helps her into her pants without Eve having to ask.

She shimmies them over Eve’s thighs before helping her stand and tugging them up to her hips. Eve leans against her, resting her chin on Villanelle’s shoulder as the younger woman wrangles her into her pyjamas. It’s all she can do to keep from slumping to the floor.

Villanelle carries her back to bed bridal-style. Eve keeps her arms wrapped around her neck, stopping her from pulling away, as she stares her down. Clothed, she doesn’t feel as vulnerable as she did in the bathroom. “Are you going to apologise for shooting me?”

They’ve played this game before, and Eve expects it to end the same way. Villanelle surprises her. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not a real apology.” Eve lets her arms drop onto the bed with a frown. Villanelle is toying with her as usual. She’s trying to mess with her head, but Eve isn’t falling for it.

Villanelle climbs onto the bed beside her and cups her cheeks in her hands, just like she did in the ruins in Rome. “Eve, I am very sorry I shot you. I feel… guilty.” Her face twists like the very notion of guilt is a foreign concept. Eve supposes it is.

“Ever since I met you I have had all of these feelings… When I shot you, you were walking away, and I thought I had lost you.

“You shot me because you were afraid of losing me?” Eve frowns. It might make sense to Villanelle, but Eve’s not that for gone yet.

“I know it’s not very conventional.” She shoots Eve a teasing smirk as her hand finds its way to the scar on her side, her fingers caress it over the fabric of her shirt.

Eve laughs despite herself. “Nothing about either of us is.”

_Us._

Villanelle latches on to the word with renewed hope, leaning in closer to Eve like she intends to kiss her. She stops just short and asks, “Does that mean you accept my apology?”

“No.” Eve shakes her head. “I was stupid enough to trust you once, I won’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t accept that.” Villanelle’s eyes darken along with her expression. Her hands tighten into fists at her sides. “I will fix this. I’ll show you.” With that she gets up off the bed and stalks out of the door, slamming it shut behind her. She doesn't lock it, it's not like Eve can make it back out of the bed, much less to the door.

Lying in the empty room, staring up at the ceiling, something nags at Eve and it feels a lot like guilt; which is preposterous, because she has nothing to feel guilty about.

Villanelle shot her in cold blood. Yes, Eve might have stabbed her first, but there was clear justification - She’d killed Bill, cost Eve two jobs and almost wrecked her marriage. Eve had every right to stab her.

Not that she would do it again.

“Villanelle-” The door opens and Eve thinks about how to soothe her ego. The last time she pissed the younger woman off she shot Eve for her troubles. Her next words die in her throat as she spots the offending gun in question; gripped in Villanelle’s right hand.

Panic wells up in Eve, a solid lump forming in her throat as she tries to swallow. “Villanelle, I’m sorry! I… I accept your apology, okay? I do! And you’re right, we can fix things… We can!”

Villanelle stops just short of the bed and rolls her eyes at her. “You are a terrible liar, Eve.” Instead of raising the gun and taking aim, she holds it by the barrel and offers it out to Eve.

“What are you doing?” Whatever game Villanelle is playing Eve doesn’t understand the rules. Reaching out with trembling hands she snatches the gun from her. It’s small, but it seems to weigh a tonne. Eve struggles to hold it up.

“Shoot me if you want, then we’ll be even.” Villanelle says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world as Eve carries on looking dumbstruck at her. Her hands shake all the more when she holds the pistol out in front of her, the barrel pointed straight at Villanelle’s chest.

“Are there bullets in it?” Eve asks, though she’s confident she knows the answer, given its hefty weight. Villanelle nods, her eyes never leaving Eve’s.

“I’m not playing, Eve. I want to prove how sorry I am, I want to make things right… so go ahead. Shoot me.”   
  



	5. Chapter 5

Eve has seen enough TV shows and movies to expect the gun to recoil as she pulls the trigger. The small .22 is wholly underwhelming as she squeezes off a shot. The sound is pitiful rather than deafening, and the kickback is non-existent. For Eve’s first time firing a gun, it’s wholly underwhelming.  
  
“Eve!” Villanelle gasps, eyes wide with shock and fixed on the older woman. Eve’s mouth is dry and her palms are slick with sweat. She almost drops the gun as her arm falls to her side.

“Jesus, Eve…” Villanelle shakes her head. “Your aim is for shit! Here.” She closes the distance between them in three short steps, ignoring the fresh bullet hole in the wall to her left. She yanks Eve’s hand so the barrel of the snub-nosed gun is pressing against her stomach in a spot that won’t do too much damage; exactly where she shot Eve.

“There. Even you can’t miss from there. Go ahead.” She smiles at Eve like she’s talking her through the recipe for baking a cake, not urging her to shoot her.

Eve wrenches her hand free and tosses the gun aside on the bed behind her. “I wasn’t aiming at you!” She combs her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit, and flops onto the bed beside the gun.

“Well, that was obvious…” Villanelle rolls her eyes at her. “Were you looking? Were your eyes even open?-”

“I wasn’t trying to hit you, you ass! Though, god knows I should have.”

“But why? You have to shoot me! That way we will be even!” Villanelle frowns at her captive. She’s come up with the perfect way to fix things between them, so why can’t Eve see it?

“Even?” Barks Eve. “Are you kidding me? You didn’t just shoot me, Villanelle! You manipulated me into killing a man!”

“That’s what this is about? You shouldn’t feel bad, Raymond was a really shitty guy.”

“You should feel bad!” Eve screams at her. She feels like some kind of scorned wife having a domestic, except she’s not married to Villanelle and she’s never been so angry arguing with Niko; her marriage doesn’t have enough passion for that.

“You… you made me kill a man! You had a gun, you could have stopped him at any point, but you made me hack him to pieces! You forced me to do something I wasn’t ready to do!”

Villanelle doesn’t take her scolding lying down. Sulking like a child she crosses her arms over her chest with a huff and says, “Don’t tell me you never thought about killing someone before. I don’t like liars, Eve.”

“Yes.” Eve sighs into her hands, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yes, I’ve thought about it! I thought about killing you, after you killed Bill. I played it out in my mind over and over, every last detail...”

“You thought about how you would kill me?” Villanelle smiles like Eve just told her the sweetest thing. She brings her hand up to her side, caressing the scar under her shirt. “How were you going to do it?”

Eve takes her hands away from her face and stares the younger woman down as she answers. “With my bare hands.”

“Huh.” The tip of Villanelle’s tongue darts out across her bottom lip as her gaze darkens. Eve hates herself for how her stomach flips.

“So you wanted to kill me, but now you don’t even want to shoot me?”

“I hate you for everything you’ve done to me. Everything you’ve made me… feel, but I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want you dead. When you used the safe word… I left Hugo bleeding out on the floor to come save you.”

“You killed for me.”

“Yes, I did; but I didn’t have to, did I? You weren’t in danger at all. You had a gun the whole time!”

“Yes, but I wasn’t thinking about the gun when Raymond was threatening you! Or when he had his sausage fingers wrapped around my throat! It’s difficult to think when you are being choked half to death!”

“I’d take your word for it, except I’m not sure if I can ever trust you again. Hell, maybe I can forgive you for shooting me, but I damn sure won’t forget it anytime soon. Here.” Eve picks up the discarded gun and holds it out to her by the butt, barrel pointing to the floor.

“Keep it.” Villanelle dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “You might not trust me, Eve, but I trust you. Besides, it will make you feel a lot safer than that syringe you’re keeping under your pillow.” Villanelle says this so nonchalantly that it takes Eve a moment to react.

She blinks slowly; the gun hanging limply in one hand as the other moves instinctively towards her pillow. “What… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Eve…” Villanelle offers her a strained smile.

“I’m not an idiot. I let you have it.”

“Like that knife… back in my kitchen.”

“Exactly.” Villanelle nods, glad that Eve has finally caught on. She’s usually much smarter than this. Maybe it’s the pain medication, dulling her senses and slowing her down.

“You manipulated me. Again.” Eve growls, her jaw set tight. She looks angry. Villanelle doesn’t understand why. She frowns in confusion.

“I wanted you to feel safe.”

“Safe? Are you kidding me? I’m in the middle of nowhere, trapped with the psychopath who shot me because she didn’t like to hear the word no! I’d be safer on a bus tour of Afghanistan than here with you!”

Villanelle purses her lips, her expression growing cold and vacant as she stares right through Eve. The older woman shudders, the ache in her side a painful reminder of the last time Villanelle wore that same expression.

“Villanelle-”

“You’re tired. You need your rest.” Villanelle interrupts, her tone sharp and clipped. Eve tenses as she steps closer to the bed, but Villanelle only slips her hand under the pillow to retrieve the syringe Eve has kept hidden there like a lifeline for the past few days.

“Keep the safety on the gun. I don’t want you accidentally blowing your brains out in the middle of the night.”  
  
Eve glares at the younger woman’s back as she walks to the door. “It wouldn’t be an accident if I did.” She grumbles under her breath before flopping back onto the bed in defeat.

_You’re mine!_

She’d rather be dead than belong to Villanelle.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Kenny a moment to remember where he is when he wakes with a start, his phone alarm screeching on the unfamiliar bedside table beside him. Light floods the room from the floor to ceiling windows that dominate the far wall.

He rolls over to switch his alarm off with a groan before settling on his back and slinging an arm over his face to block out the intrusive early morning sunlight.  
  
There’s just an over an hour until he’s due to pick Hugo up from the hospital. Kenny had expected the other man to spend weeks, if not months, recovering in hospital from the gun-shot wound.

The events of Rome were less than a week ago and Kenny has had nightmares every night since. Sometimes it’s Hugo bleeding to death in that hallway, and sometimes it’s Eve.

On the really bad nights it’s both of them.

Kenny lies in bed for a few more minutes before he forces himself to get up. He pads barefoot into the living room and checks on the search feeds he has set up looking for any trace of Eve or Villanelle.

Between his MI-6 clearance, and his technical know-how he has access government and civilian databases the world over. If Eve or Villanelle surface he’ll know. He refuses to consider the fact that Eve might really be dead. It’s not an idea he wants to entertain for even a second.

“Where are you, Eve?” Kenny mumbles to himself as he scans through the results from his overnight searches and comes up empty. He sets them off again before heading for a shower.

After a quick shower and a light breakfast he dresses and leaves for the hospital, arriving just before nine o’clock. Hugo is sitting in a wheelchair beside his bed, telling tall tales to a male nurse, when Kenny walks into the bay.

“Yeah, I mean being in MI-6, getting shot by terrorists is just part of the job.” Kenny rolls his eyes and stands off to one side until the young nurse tears himself away when another patient calls for him.

“Shot by terrorists?” Kenny doesn’t bother with pleasantries like saying hello. He drops the duffel bag containing a change of clothes for the other man on the bed and fold his arms over his chest.

“What? The 12 are technically terrorists.” Hugo shrugs, then regrets it as he presses a hand to his side. “And I was shot in the line of duty. I deserve a medal, mate. From the Queen herself!”

“How much morphine have they got you on?” Kenny laughs as Hugo pulls a face.

“Oi! Show some respect! I took a bullet for Queen and country!”  
  
“Sorry. You’re right, you did, I can’t get you a medal, but there’s a Costa downstairs if you’re interested in a coffee?”

“I’d rather have a pint.”

“I don’t think your doctor would advise that. Coffee’s my best offer.”

“Fine.” Hugo sighs with an exaggerated huff as he snatches the bag from the bed. “I’ve been discharged, let me get changed and we can take off. I’m dying to get home to my own bed!”

Driving across London during mid-morning should be classed as an Olympic sport. It takes an hour for Kenny to drive the seven miles from The Royal London Hospital back to Chelsea Harbour. Hugo complains the whole way. He fiddles with the radio and gives a running commentary on how bad Kenny’s driving is.

Kenny isn’t a violent person, but he wants to shoot the other man by the time they reach the apartment block; maybe he’ll settle for pushing his wheelchair into the harbour instead.

They make it up to the penthouse after Hugo spends five whole minutes telling the concierge he was shot in the line of duty, but can’t say much more. Kenny rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time since leaving the hospital. He’s done it so often this morning he feels like his eyes might fall out of their sockets.

Kenny brings Hugo’s chair to a stop in the living room and helps him onto the sofa with only a little humming-and-haring from the other man. Settled, Hugo holds his side with a grimace and says, “Jesus, I think I’ll be out of the game for a bit with this.”

“It’s not a game.” Kenny scowls. “People are dead! Elena had the right idea in getting out...” Hugo watches him pace back and forth in front of the sofa, struggling with something.

“Who looks for Eve if you walk?” The question stops Kenny in his tracks. “Your mum and the rest of MI6 don’t care if Eve’s alive, they just want her out of the bloody way! I can’t find my car keys most mornings, so Eve’s well and truly fucked if I’m all she’s got looking for her. She needs you, Kenny. I need you. So tell me what we do. How do we find Eve?”

 

* * *

 

 

Six days after being shot Eve is finally strong enough to venture out of the room Villanelle has been keeping her in. There’s no lock on the door. It opens inward with a twist of the doorknob, giving Eve a view of the landing. There’s a second door across from Eve’s and another to the left by the top of the stairs.

Eve steps stiffly out onto the landing, her hand against the wall for support. She eyes the stairs warily, but curiosity gets the better of her and she shuffles over to the door straight ahead of her.

It opens to reveal a second bedroom, similar in size and shape to Eve’s. This must be where Villanelle is sleeping. There’s a door leading to the room to the left, another en-suite.

Satisfied for now, Eve steps back out onto the landing to tackle the stairs. She takes a couple at a time, stopping to catch her breath. Villanelle left her painkillers out for her this morning, but that was hours ago and the familiar dull ache in her side changes into a searing pain.

She takes longer than she’d like to admit getting to the bottom of the stairs. She feels eighty years old as she shambles through the living room, towards the source of the music she can hear playing in the next room.

It leads her to a decent sized kitchen, where the radio is playing an old eighties pop song. Villanelle hums along softly, her hips moving in time to the music. She has her honey blond hair tied back in a messy bun, with wisps of flyaway hairs falling out of it. She’s wearing a blood red apron that says ‘kiss the cook’. It, and her cheeks, are covered in a light dusting of flour.

She has her eyes on the pan of soup she’s busy stirring, but somehow still knows the older woman is there. She looks up with a grin. “Look at you, downstairs and everything!” Villanelle diverts her attention from Eve for a moment to bend down and open the oven, filling the kitchen with the smell of freshly made bread. Villanelle bunches up a dish cloth and uses it to remove a loaf tin from the oven.

“You made bread.” Eve ignores the other woman’s applause at her progress. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. The scene before her, Villanelle slaving over a hot oven, is just so benign and domestic. Eve almost wants to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it.

“And soup.” Says Villanelle. She uses a ladle to fill two bowls with the soup from the pan while she lets the bread cool.

“Can I… do anything?” Eve feels like a spare part standing there watching her.

Villanelle hums and nods at a drawer across from her. “You can set the table. The cutlery is in there. Just don’t overdo it.”

“I think I can manage.” Eve chuckles, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Opening the drawer she pauses as she spots the knives in the drawer. Her fingers tighten around the handle so hard they ache and her knuckles turn white. Her tongue darts out over her dry lips.

“Can you hand me the bread knife?” Villanelle asks. Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp and beaded as they linger on the back of Eve’s head; like she knows what the older woman is thinking.

Eve clears her throat and picks up the serrated bread knife by the handle. Her hand shakes as she hands it out for Villanelle to take. “Thank you, Eve.” She cuts the freshly made loaf into thick uneven slices while Eve places two spoons on the dinning table and then takes a seat.

Villanelle places a bowl of the piping hot soup in front of Eve and the plate of warm bread in the middle of the table between them. The knife sits on the side of the plate like an unspoken accusation.

Taking her seat, Villanelle picks up a slice of bread and rips it apart before dropping it in her bowl. “Bon appetite.” They eat in a comfortable silence with the radio playing in the background.

Eve dips a slice of bread in her soup. “It’s good. Where did you learn to cook?”

Villanelle, hunched over her bowl and with her mouth full, gives a shrug of her shoulders. She swallows before saying, “Here and there. I like food.”

“Most people do.” Eve snorts, earning a dirty look from the other woman. “Okay, what’s your favourite thing to eat?” She regrets the question as soon as it leaves her lips.

Villanelle’s eyebrows shoot up as she gives her a wry smirk. “On second thoughts, don’t answer that.”

“Suit yourself.” Villanelle gives another shrug.

Eve pushes her bowl aside when she’s done. “So what’s comes next? What’s your plan? Bundle me in a suitcase and smuggle me into Alaska?”

Villanelle takes her time in answering. She mops up the dregs in her bowl with her last slice of bread. “I told you. I will make you better. After that, it is up to you.”

“You’ll let me leave?” Eve asks, more than a little sceptical. “Just like that, you’ll let me go?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit! You shot me the last time I tried to walk away!”

“I was mad.” If she shrugs her shoulders at her one more time, Eve might just pick up the bread knife and run her through with it. “I said sorry already!”

“Oh, and that makes it all okay?” Eve rolls her eyes at her. “Thanks for lunch. I’m going back upstairs, the company is better.” She stands too fast, and it feels like her side rips right open. With gritted teeth she flops back into the chair and pulls up her shirt to check.

“Your dressing needs changed-”

“I can do it.” Eve cuts her off. “I don’t need your help, Villanelle. I don’t need anything from you.”


	6. Chapter 6

“What the hell have you done to my spare room?” Hugo gawks at the pages and pages of paper tacked to his walls. It looks like Kenny has taken the full MI6 file on Villanelle and applied it to the walls. There’s a mess of CCTV stills, police reports and surveillance pictures linked by a red string. It reminds Hugo of a spider’s web.

“It’s just Blu tack.” Kenny brushes his disdain aside without a second thought. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He stands in front of a section headed ‘Rome’ and points out what looks to be a police report in Italian. Hugo can’t make out a word of it.

“A blond woman stole a car from near the ruins where we found Eve’s blood. It happened an hour after you were shot.” Kenny is filled with a nervous energy as he moves from the police report to a series of CCTV stills of an innocuous black Hyundai. “I tracked it from the city all the way to the North-West border with Austria. Here, look at this.”

Pulling one image from the wall, Kenny hands it over to the other man. Hugo scrutinises the closeup of the car, showing a young blond woman at the wheel. It could be Villanelle, but it might also be a million other people. “Do you see?” Asks Kenny.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”

“That.” Kenny leans in and points at a shadow on the back seat. He waits a second for Hugo to see it for himself. Hugo gives him a blank stare. “The shadow. That could be Eve.”

“That could be a lot of things.” Says Hugo. “We can’t even say for sure that’s Villanelle-”

“Are you kidding me?” Kenny snatches the photo back. He replaces the image on the wall with a sulk. Hugo rubs at the back of his neck with a sigh. They’ve got nothing.

“It could be them… It’s something I suppose.” He concedes. “So what’s next?”

“I want to go talk to Niko.”

Hugo winces at the suggestion. He’s not keen on meeting Eve’s husband. One of the last times Hugo saw the man’s wife they’d been naked in bed together. “Do you think he can tell us anything? I get the impression the bloke’s clueless about what she gets up to at work.”

“I need to ask him for Eve’s financial information, bank accounts, credit cards, etc. I can find out myself, but it’ll be quicker if Niko gives it to us. If she’s still alive, and she’s used her bank card, we’ll have somewhere to start.” To Hugo it sounds like they’re chasing their tails. He’s not even sure if he believes Eve is still alive, but Kenny looks determined so he doesn’t argue.

“Okay mate, sounds like a plan.”

* * *

 

Villanelle feels a nervous ripple of excitement run through her as Eve shifts her position on the sofa, draping her legs over Villanelle’s. It’s late afternoon and they’ve sat watching movies since lunch.

Eve had calmed down enough to allow Villanelle to change her dressing and the younger woman talked her into staying downstairs with her.

Most of the DVDs in the rented house are in Italian, but a handful of older ones are in English. They’re halfway through ‘The Breakfast Club’ when Eve moves to make herself more comfortable, spreading out across the sofa; and Villanelle.

Villanelle steals a glance at the other woman, but Eve is looking straight ahead, absorbed in the screen. Not for the first time Villanelle contemplates what it would be like to have Eve atop of her, or - better yet - pinned beneath her.

A warm flush spreads over her body, starting at her cheeks and settling between her legs. They might not be in Alaska, but Villanelle has gotten almost everything she wants. It’s a shame she had to shoot Eve to get it.

The wound is healing nicely, but it will be weeks before Eve is back to full strength and even longer before she can exert herself. Villanelle is just going to need to be patient and wait a little longer before she gets everything.

As if sensing she is being watched, Eve turns her head away from the screen to look at Villanelle with a small frown. “Do you want me to move my legs?”

“No.” Villanelle beams at her, her smile genuine. She reaches for one of Eve’s bare feet and starts massaging it. Eve stiffens, taken aback by the sudden contact. Villanelle knows what she’s doing though, and expert fingers quickly lull Eve into submission. She relaxes again, sinking back into the overstuffed cushions of the cheap Ikea sofa while Villanelle works her magic.

Eve’s cheeks grow warm as she imagines what those fingers might be capable of elsewhere. She forces the intrusive thought to the back of her mind while trying to focus on the movie again. That’s easier said than done when Villanelle’s attention moves to her calf.

Eve clears her throat and jerks her leg back. “Am I due more meds? My side’s hurting.” The pain is a tolerable dull ache, but she needs an excuse to get Villanelle away from her, even it’s just for a few moments.

“Not for another hour.” Villanelle frowns at her watch. “I can give you some ibuprofen?”

“Sure.”

Villanelle walks off into the kitchen, giving Eve time to compose herself. She pulls out her hair tie, which is giving her a headache, and runs her fingers through her hair, teasing it out.

The tap runs in the kitchen as Villanelle fills a glass of water. She returns far too soon for Eve, the glass of water in one hand and two small pink tablets in the other. Eve takes them from her with a mumbled, “Thanks”.

Villanelle settles on the other end of the sofa wearing an expectant look. Eve makes a judgement call and decides it might be safer to change positions. She shifts and lies her head in Villanelle’s lap instead. The other woman lets out a pleased hum as she plays with Eve’s hair, her fingers massaging her scalp.

It feels good.

She should tell her to stop, but she doesn’t have it in her. Eve has been through hell and back in the last few weeks. She deserves a break, and some pampering; at least that’s what she tells herself as she lets Villanelle continue her ministrations.

Her eyes grow heavy as the television set swims in and out of focus. After a few minutes of fighting it, she finally lets them close. She’s seen the movie they’re watching at least a dozen times and a short nap doesn’t sound too bad.

* * *

 

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Kenny kills the engine in front of number 39 Piscally Street. It’s mid-afternoon and the blinds are closed. It doesn’t look as if anyone is home.

Beside him, in the passenger seat, Hugo winces as he unbuckles his seat belt. “We already came this far.” Hugo shrugs. “Might as well get this over and done with.” He takes his time in getting out of the car, hunched over and moving at the speed of a man three times his age.

Kenny waits for him at the gate. It opens with a squeal of protest, announcing their arrival. There’s a twitch at the curtains in the living room. Niko Polastri opens the front door of his marital home before Hugo or Kenny even reach the doorstep.

“Mr Polastri.” Kenny greets the older man while Hugo hangs back behind him with his hands shoved into the pockets of his thick wool overcoat. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“Yes?” Eve’s husband looks like hell, his hair dishevelled and unkempt. There’s at least a week’s worth of growth on his face from not shaving. His face is pale and his eyes are ringed by heavy dark circles. The clothes he’s wearing are ill fitting, as if he’s lost a lot of weight recently.

“Um, Mr Polastri, my name is Kenny; and this is Hugo. We’re colleagues of your wife.”

“Right.” Niko stares blankly at the two men on his doorstep. “I’m sorry, why are you here?”

“Could we maybe talk inside?” Kenny tosses a glance over his shoulder at Hugo, who looks like he’s struggling to stay up on his feet. Niko doesn’t answer, but then he doesn’t shut the door on them either. He turns and shuffles inside without looking back to see if his guests are following him.

Kenny and Hugo share a look before Hugo pushes the other man across the threshold. Kenny follows Niko into the living room, leaving Hugo to shut the door behind them. Eve’s husband sits in the armchair by the door, leaving the two men to share the Chesterfield sofa across from it. Hugo sits with a wince which doesn’t go unnoticed by their host.

“What’s wrong?” Niko asks, his tone flat like the question is a reflex, a knee jerk reaction to seeing the other man in pain.   
The man’s world has been ripped apart, and he still manages to be civil. Hugo isn’t sure he’d have it in him.

“I was shot.” He answers without thinking. That gets Niko’s attention.

He sits up straighter in his chair. “Shot? Were you with Eve? Were you there when-” Niko stops himself short of saying it. He takes a moment, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances up at the ceiling before he continues. “Were you with her when it happened? Was it quick? Did she suffer?”

Hugo feels like he’s back in the headmaster’s office at Eaton as he drops his gaze to the floor and twiddles his thumbs. “Nobody will tell me anything. Please, I just want to know what happened to her. I need to know.” Niko persists.

“I was shot in Rome.” Hugo nods as he finally lifts his head. “I didn’t see what happened to Eve. She… She went to get help after I was shot.” It’s not an outright lie, but it’s not the truth either. Hugo isn’t sure Eve’s husband could cope with hearing how she left him bleeding out on a cheap hotel carpet to be with the woman who supposedly murdered her.

“That’s not what your boss said! She said that woman took Eve after shooting a member of her team.” Niko’s previously blank expression gives way to a scowl. “That was you wasn’t it? So what aren’t you telling me?” Hugo squirms sheepishly under the scrutiny. He might as well have a Scarlet letter tattooed across his forehead.  
  
“Mr Polastri, Niko, we think Eve might not be dead.” Kenny steps in before Hugo can splutter out something stupid; like the fact that he and Eve slept together in Rome.

“What do you mean ‘might not be dead’? Your lot told me she was!” Niko clutched the arms of the chair, his nails digging into the fabric. “Lost too much blood to survive, that’s what she said! What was her name again? What was it?” He rubs at his chin, eyes wide and frantic as he tries to fight through the fog of grief and come up with the name of Eve’s boss; the one who told him she was dead.

“Carolyn Martens.” Kenny answers for him.

“Yes! That’s her! She was the one!” Niko jumps on the name as if it’s a life preserver, like he might not get swept under if he can only hold on to something.

“She’s our boss.” Says Kenny. He doesn’t mention she’s also his mother. “She believes Eve is dead, that Villanelle killed her, but we… we’re not so sure.”

“Why?” Niko asks, the anger slipping away from him like a balloon deflating. Kenny shares a look with Hugo, unsure how to answer. How much did Niko know about Eve and Villanelle’s complicated relationship?

“We, uh… We don’t think Villanelle would kill Eve.”

“She’s a goddamn psychopath!” Niko protests, his face twisted with rage. “She kills people for a living! She killed Gemma and… And Eve was meant to be catching her! She was supposed to be bringing her to justice not… not…” He trails off again, his eyes watering as his clenched fists shake at his sides.

“We know, Mr Polastri.” Hugo swallows his silence and steps up to the plate. “What Kenny meant, what we mean, is Villanelle is a performer. She and Eve have been playing a game and if she won, if she bested Eve, she wouldn’t burn the body. That’s not her style. She’d want everyone to know she won.”

“She burned her? That’s what they think happened?” Niko slumps back into his chair, the fight leaving him. He rubs at his weathered face with both hands.

“We don’t think that.” Says Kenny. “We think Eve might still be alive, that Villanelle might have her somewhere. I’ve come to ask you for access to Eve’s financial information, her bank account, credit cards, joint accounts, anything she has access to. It might help us find her.”

“Plus, any friends or family members she might turn to if she were in trouble. Yours or hers.” Hugo chimes in. “She could be in hiding… From Villanelle.”

“Alright.” Niko nods. “I’ll get you what you need.”

* * *

 

Villanelle is still running her fingers through Eve’s hair when the older woman wakes with a start hours later. “Easy.” Villanelle pushes her back with a gentle nudge of her shoulder. “It’s okay. You were sleeping.”

It’s dark outside, and the room is only lit by the soft glow of the television set. The sharp pain in her side lets Eve know she missed her last dose of painkillers.

She says nothing to Villanelle. The pain is manageable. It’s been a week since she was shot and Eve isn’t waking up in absolute agony anymore. She isn’t about to run a marathon or anything, but the pain is somewhat tolerable now.

“What time is it?” Eve shifts and stretches, trying to undo the tight knot that has wedged its way between her shoulder blades. Villanelle isn’t wearing a watch, so she brings up the time on the television. It’s after midnight.

“We should go to bed.” Villanelle’s sultry tone, and the way she’s still combing her fingers through Eve’s hair, makes her suggestion sound like an invitation.

“I’ll sleep here, I don’t think I could make it all the way back upstairs.” Eve says through a yawn.

“I can carry you?” The skilful fingers at her scalp come to a stop. Lying on her back, Eve glances up at her with a look of disbelief.

“What, on your back?” She teases, her tone almost playful. Villanelle knows she’s being mocked, but she likes this side of Eve. It makes a change from her being so serious all the time.

“How do you think you got upstairs in the first place?” Villanelle watches as the question sparks something in Eve’s eyes, like she’s just flipped a switch and turned on a light.

“I never thought about it.” Eve sits up, resting on her elbow. She scrutinises the younger woman. “You’re what, a hundred and twenty pounds wet?”

“Eve, how rude! You should never ask a woman how much she weighs.” Villanelle tuts at her. “And I’m stronger than I look. The first training I received, after leaving prison, was fitness training with an ex Special Boat Service instructor. His name was Frank. He was an asshole.”

“Special Boat Service?” Eve scoffs. Her laughter doesn’t last long as Villanelle pinches her arm with a frown. “Hey!”

“SBS. It’s like the SAS, but cooler.”

“What else did they teach you?” Eve settles down again, interested in finding out more about the other woman’s training. For every question she’s been able to answer regarding Villanelle there seem to be a hundred more for Eve to ask.

Villanelle doesn’t answer straight away. She takes her time, weighing up the cost of being truthful against the benefit of impressing Eve. “Lots.” She keeps her answer cryptic, deliberately drawing out Eve’s wait.

“Such as?”

“My training with the twelve took a year.” Villanelle heaves out a sigh, like she’s bored and has better things to be doing. She absently inspects her nails, aware she’s piqued Eve’s interest.

“The fitness and the unarmed combat training with Frank took six weeks. Then there was the escape and evasion training at the Mountain warfare school in Mittenwald. A month of weapons familiarisation in South Kiev. Advanced interrogation resistance at Fort Bragg. Three months at Severka urban sniper school… oh and I was attached to a NATO special forces cadre. That was very boring.”

Villanelle goes on. “I learnt explosives and toxicology in Volgograd. Surveillance in Berlin. Advanced driving and lock-picking in London, and identity management, communications, stenography and coding in Paris. Then there was the stuff with Fantine, but I doubt you’re interested in-”

“I am.” Eve interrupts. She knows she sounds too eager, but it’s not like she has a lot of pride left, anyway. She and Villanelle are long past that point.

Villanelle suppresses a smile. She enjoys having Eve’s undivided attention - the way she watches her so closely and hangs on her every word. “Fantine was an old French battle axe. She taught me how to fit in with Parisian high society, how to dress, how to act… She was a complete bitch. I liked her.”

“And you learnt all this in a year? Jesus, it took me three years to pass my driving test!” Eve sounds impressed.

Villanelle prunes. “I am a quick study - and very strong.” She stands up, then bends, scooping Eve into her arms bridal style. Eve panics, convinced she is about to drop her, she throws her arms around Villanelle’s neck in a vice like grip.

“Relax.” Villanelle scoffs with a soft chuckle. “I’ve got you, Eve. I won’t let you fall.”

_‘I already fell.’_ Eve thinks to herself as she buries her face in the other woman’s shoulder. _‘You pushed me.’_

Villanelle carries her to the stairs with ease. Going up them takes more effort and Villanelle is panting softly in Eve’s ear by the time they reach the top. Eve still clings to her for dear life.

“Okay, put me down! I can walk from here.”

“I’ve got you.” Villanelle ignores her.

“Villanelle!” Eve protests. She struggles, wriggling and squirming in her arms despite the pain in her side. Villanelle steps through the bedroom door just as Eve kicks her bare foot out. She stubs her big toe on the door frame and howls. “Fuck!”

“You should have tucked your foot in!” Villanelle says as Eve turns the air blue with a string of profanity.

“You should have put me down when I said!”

“I was helping!”

Their bickering continues all the way over to the bed until Villanelle gently lowers her to the mattress. Eve still has her arms wrapped around the other woman’s neck, bringing them almost nose to nose. Both women fall abruptly silent. It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room as the tense moment drags on.

Eve is frozen, paralysed by fear and indecision. Villanelle moves her gaze to Eve’s mouth. She licks her own bottom lip as she unconsciously leans forward. Eve arches up, meeting her halfway.

The kiss is cautious on both sides, their lips briefly touching. Villanelle fights her instinct to devour and sits up when Eve pulls away first. Eve looks like a rabbit caught in headlights, her eyes wide and her body still as she stares up at the younger woman leaning over her. Villanelle stares right back.

Feeling bold, she goes to lean in again.

Eve’s hand finds her shoulder, pushing her back as she drops her gaze to the floor. “I’m tired.” She says in little more than a choked whisper. Villanelle nods mutely at her and stands.

“I’ll let you sleep. Goodnight, Eve.”

“Goodnight, V.”

Villanelle feels like she’s walking on air as she skips into her own bedroom. She flops onto the bed and runs her fingers across the scar on the left-hand side of her stomach; her gift from Eve. A giddiness bubbles up inside of her and a soft laugh escapes her lips as they split open into a wide grin.  
  
Eve kissed her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it's taken for me to update. My health hasn't been great lately, but I'm getting back to writing.

“Villanelle?” Eve stands at the top of the stairs and hollers Villanelle’s name for a third time with no answer from her. It’s early, but with no clock in her room, and no mobile phone, Eve can’t be sure of the time. Maybe Villanelle is still sleeping. 

Eve has her fingers wrapped around the door handle before she second guesses the wisdom of bursting in on Villanelle without warning. She knocks and waits for an answer. 

The seconds tick by and Eve hears nothing from inside the room. “Villanelle?” She knocks again, calling out to the other woman. “V? Are you… decent?” Eve risks opening the door a crack. Still nothing. 

Opening it all the way, she finds the room empty. The door to the en-suite is closed. Eve can’t hear any water running, but she knocks anyway. “Villanelle? Are you in there?” Met with silence again, Eve doesn’t bother going in.

She turns her attention to the two open suitcases on the floor instead. They contain a mixture of men and women’s clothing, and the name tags show them as belonging to a Mr and Mrs O’Callaghan from Dublin. 

Eve frowns, wondering what might have happened to the couple if Villanelle has their luggage. She puts them to the back of her mind as she strips out of the clothes she’s slept in for the last two days. 

Rifling through the suitcases, she finds a pair of sweatpants and a jumper that just about fit. She hits the jackpot as she spots a pair of trainers tucked under the bed. They’re a size too big, but they’ll do. Eve won’t get far in the snow with no shoes. 

She picks them up and carries them as she creeps her way down the staircase. The second to last step creaks loud enough to wake the dead, freezing Eve in her tracks. She waits for any sign that Villanelle has heard her sneaking down, but the house is silent as the grave. 

Eve lets out a sigh of relief and carries on. She sits on the last step and pulls on the over-sized trainers, tying the laces tight to keep them from slipping off.

“Villanelle?” She tries again, just to make sure she is alone in the chalet. Confident she is, Eve makes her way along the hall and into the kitchen. She didn’t spot a phone in the living room last night, but she figures there might be one in the kitchen. 

There isn’t. 

Eve slumps against the nearest bench and lets out a defeated puff of air. So much for her great escape. She hasn’t even made it to the back door, and she’s exhausted, clutching her side and fighting back a wave of nausea. 

She sits on a stool at the breakfast counter and takes a minute to get her breath back; aware Villanelle could walk through the front door at any moment. 

Through one of the kitchen windows Eve can see a plume of smoke in the distance, coming from the chimney of the nearest neighbour. It’s got to be a half a mile away, at least. It does little to raise Eve’s hopes.

In her condition it might as well be twenty miles away for how long it will take her to trudge through the heavy snowfall - and that’s if, without a coat, she doesn’t die from exposure first. 

Stealing herself for what’s coming, Eve gets to her feet and picks up the closest thing that looks as if it might be heavy enough to put out one of the glass panels in the back door. 

Out of habit, she tries the handle first. It turns without protest and the door swings inward. It isn’t locked. Eve stares at it for the longest time, at a loss for what to think. Closing it again, she turns and goes back to the front door. That’s not locked either. 

It doesn’t make sense for Villanelle to have gone out and not locked the doors behind her, or made any attempt to restrain Eve to keep her there. 

The older woman might still be in rough shape, but she’s up and walking and that makes her a flight risk. Villanelle is smarter than that, which means she was telling the truth when she said Eve can leave when she’s well enough. 

The knowledge that she isn’t a prisoner drains the fight from Eve. She slumps back on to the bottom step and kicks off her stolen trainers. 

Going back up the stairs feels like too much of a challenge - despite her earlier plan to hike a mile in the snow - so she shuffles into the living room instead and lies on the sofa to wait for Villanelle to come back. 

A nagging doubt at the back of her head questions whether Villanelle is even coming back. What if she got bored with playing nurse? bored with Eve? 

‘I thought you were special.’ 

Eve has worked herself into a frenzy by the time Villanelle comes back. “Where the hell have you been?” She demands the second the younger woman walks through the door, laden down by shopping bags. 

“Shopping.” Villanelle says, pointing out the obvious as she places the bags on the floor. Eve fumes silently while Villanelle goes back out to the car and comes in carrying yet more bags,

her cheeks flushed from the cold weather, the strands of loose hair poking out from under her beanie lend her an air of being windswept. 

Eve shouldn’t find it endearing as Villanelle peels off her gloves and begins blowing on her fingers, but she does. Her anger seeps away as Villanelle smiles brightly at her. 

“I got us more clothes. They will not be on a catwalk in Milan anytime soon, but they’re comfortable. Oh, there’s food too! I got lots of snacks!” She buzzes from one bag to another, pulling things out to show her like an excited toddler. 

“Where did those suitcases upstairs come from?” Eve rips the band-aid straight off. If Villanelle killed for them, then Eve needs to know about it. There’s been enough secrets between them. This, whatever it is between them, won’t work if they can’t start being honest with each other. 

“Someone’s been a busy girl!” Villanelle laughs with a hum. 

“Did you kill the people living here?” 

Villanelle stops searching through the bags and gives Eve her full attention, and a lopsided grin to go with it. “No.” She doesn’t elaborate, but then Eve doesn’t back down. She stands with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for more. 

Rolling her eyes, Villanelle mimics her pose. “The suitcases were in the back of the car I stole to get us here. Nobody lives here. It’s an Air BnB. I booked it under a false name. I didn’t kill anybody. Are you happy?” 

“Happy? I’m in the middle of nowhere, recovering from a gunshot wound - which you gave me - and you up and left for hours and-” Eve is hyperventilating as Villanelle steps forward and takes hold of her face. 

“Take a breath, Baby. I’m sorry I left without telling you. I thought you’d be sleeping.” She runs her thumb along Eve’s jaw and leans in, just like she back at the ruins. Eve closes her eyes and indulges the possibility of letting the other woman kiss her again; just for a second. 

She pulls back as she feels the ghost of Villanelle’s breath on her lips. “Did you get any ice cream? I know it’s freezing, but I could murder a bowl of-” Eve falls into an abrupt silence as she glances up and notices the way Villanelle is looking at her; like she could devour her with her eyes alone. 

It’s not the first time Eve has caught Villanelle looking at her like that, but it still catches her off guard. Eve isn’t sure anyone else has ever wanted her so intensely before, and she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t more than a little flattering. 

“Um.” She clears her throat, trying to make things less awkward. “We should get these groceries away.” Eve bends to pick up the plastic shopping bags, but Villanelle’s strained voice stops her. 

“Are we still playing this game, Eve?” Villanelle takes a step forward, cupping her cheeks with both hands again. “Everything is different now. You’re free to be who you are. What you are…” 

“Like you, you mean?” Eve tilts her head, bringing her mouth closer to Villanelle’s. 

“You liked it.” A burning hatred builds in her chest at the thought of what the other woman had forced her to do. Killing Raymond had not been Eve’s choice. Maybe she might have gotten there herself someday, but Villanelle had had no right to push her into it. 

Long after the shock wore off Eve had felt the guilt of taking a life; but it felt like something she was expected to feel. 

Eve had learnt at an early age that people expected her to think and feel a certain way. She had gotten so good at pretending that somewhere along the way she had convinced herself that what she felt was real. That conviction had cracked, just as Ray’s skull cracked under the repeated blows of the axe. 

“Maybe.” It’s the closest to an admission that Villanelle will get. She’s just like everyone else, expecting things from her. Eve isn’t sure who or what she is deep down anymore, but what she knows is she needs to find out on her own. At her own pace. “That doesn’t change the fact that you forced me to do something I wasn’t ready for. It won’t happen again. Understood?” 

Villanelle nods, her gaze locked on the shorter woman like she’s mesmerised. As petulant as Villanelle can be, she can’t find it in herself to sulk or lash out; not when Eve is being so bold with her. She likes this new, aggressive, Eve. 

She’s seen glimpses of her before: In Eve’s kitchen, in the Forest of Dean and at Villanelle’s borrowed flat as she’d ordered her about. Villanelle is keen to see more of this Eve. 

Her Eve.  

 

* * *

 

“I might have something…” Kenny sits at Hugo’s kitchen table, bent over his laptop wearing an intense look of concentration. He’s been sat like that for hours. 

Meanwhile, Hugo spreads out across the sofa with an empty bowl of popcorn resting on his stomach and Netflix playing on the flat-screen on the far wall. 

“Backache?” Hugo suggests as he stretches out. The muscles in his injured side strain in protest at the sudden movement. The gunshot wound is healing nicely, and the stitches should be ready to come out in another week. 

“That too.” Kenny agrees with a sheepish smile. He copies the other man and stretches out before wiping at his eyes with his hands. He’s spent most of the afternoon pouring over Eve and Niko’s financial information. From their bank accounts to their savings and pensions. 

It’s what Kenny would expect from a middle-class married couple. Nothing stands out and none of Eve’s accounts have been touched since her supposed ‘death’ in Italy a week ago. 

It’s not the Polastri’s finances that peak Kenny’s interest, but the police report from the incident at the storage locker with Niko and Gemma; the woman Villanelle murdered. 

“Come on then, don’t leave me in suspense.” Hugo sets the popcorn bowl aside on the floor and sits up with a grunt before making his way over to Kenny. He leans against the other man’s back for support while he peers at the screen. “What am I looking at?” 

“It’s the police report from the murder of Gemma Pierson, the teacher Niko was staying with.” Says Kenny. 

“And?” 

“Well, it’s pretty grim stuff.” Kenny shuffles in his seat. “But something caught my eye. In his statement, Niko mentioned something that sounded a bit off. Villanelle stole a snow globe.” 

“A snow globe?” Hugo gives him a sceptical look. “Alright! Case closed! Eve’s alive.” He sneered and threw his arms up in the air. Kenny ignored his sarcasm. 

“It was a snow globe from a trip to Alaska the Polastris took years ago. Villanelle seemed to take an interest in it.” With a soft click-clack of the keys on his laptop, Kenny brought up several windows on the screen. 

“I had a hunch, so I looked up bookings for flights from the UK and Italy to Alaska around the time of the murder and I found one in a name that matches an alias Konstantin gave us for Villanelle.” 

Kenny glances over his shoulder to make sure Hugo is keeping up. The other man’s eyes don’t stray from the computer as he absorbs the information Kenny has brought up. “A booking for two women…” 

“Right!” Kenny nods with enthusiasm. “The flight was for the day after Peel was killed, but neither woman boarded the flight. If the second ticket was meant for Eve, then maybe Villanelle created her a false identity. I can search for hits on the name-” Kenny trails off as Hugo swears and walks away, slumping back onto the sofa in defeat. 

“What? What’s wrong? This is good news! This could prove Eve is alive!” Kenny can’t understand why Hugo looks so sullen. It’s what they’ve been looking for.

Hugo shakes his head and runs a hand over the stubble on his chin. For someone who works for a clandestine branch of British Intelligence, Kenny can be so naïve. 

“What it proves is they were working together.” He says. “Eve was in on it from the start. She faked her death and fucked us over!” 

“She wouldn’t!” Kenny stands up to face him and shakes his head. “We don’t know that Eve knew about any of it! Villanelle could have set this all up without her knowing. That has to be it. Eve wouldn’t do that to us…” 

“Wouldn’t she?” Hugo offers him a wry, bitter smile. It disappears as Kenny drops back into his seat with a huff of air, like a balloon deflating. The truth is sinking in. 

“She wouldn’t…” Kenny repeats, but with less conviction. He looks like he’s about to be sick as he takes his head in his hands. Then something changes. He sits up straight again, “But so what if she did? Can we blame her? My Mum set her up and hung her out to dry, and we let it happen.” 

“Speak for yourself!” Hugo growls, his face contorting with rage. “Nobody thought to let me in on the big secret! And yes, I can blame her. I was fucking shot, and she left me there! Bleeding out on the fucking floor!” The vein in the side of his neck bulges as he clenches his jaw. 

Kenny falls quiet and looks down at the floor, his newfound backbone crumbling. He looks like a kid who just found out Santa Claus isn’t real. Hugo feels like shit for losing it with him. “It’s the nature of the job.” He speaks slow and soft, a complete about turn from his earlier outburst. 

“Eve knew what she was signing up for. So did I. I liked Eve, but if I’d known about the real operation in Italy, I’d have still gone through with it. Queen and country first, right? That’s what we all signed on for.” 

“I didn’t.” Says Kenny. “I never chose any of this. I didn’t get a choice, I just did as my Mum told me… like I always do.” Kenny looks close to crying. He wipes stubbornly at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and Hugo feels a lump forming in his throat. 

“You’re not doing what she wants you to do now, are you?” Hugo tries to lighten the mood. “Fuck it! Maybe Eve was in on faking her death, maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’s dead. Who the fuck knows? Let’s follow the aliases, see where it leads. It’s not like we’ve got much else to do.” 

He smirks, tugging a small, hopeful smile from the other man. His speech might not have been that eloquent, but it’s what Kenny needs to hear. 

“Thanks, Hugo.” 

 

* * *

 

“How was your nap, Babe?” Villanelle asks, glancing over her shoulder as she hears Eve’s slippered feet shuffling into the kitchen. The younger woman is standing at the aisle in the centre of the kitchen knife in hand as she dices tomatoes. 

“Fine.” Eve answers. “I just wish I could stay awake for more than a few hours at a time and not need to nap like an old lady!” 

“Getting shot can do that to you.” Villanelle points out, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a teasing smile; like shooting Eve was some kind of playful attempt at flirting. 

Eve bites her tongue and rolls up the sleeves of her jumper. “I’ll bear that in mind. Can I help with anything?” Eve gestures at the mountain of ingredients stacked up on the counter. “What are you even making, anyway?” 

“Spaghetti bolognese.” Says Villanelle, like it should be obvious. Eve remembers requesting it back in the ruins, while still deep in shock. She stiffens as Villanelle points the tip of the knife in her direction. “And you’re not doing anything. You’re meant to be resting!” 

“I’m not an invalid! Let me do something.” 

Villanelle puts the knife down and places her hands on her hips as she scrutinises the older woman, trying to assess whether she’s up for manual labour. “Fine. You can chop the onions.” She gives in and picks the knife up by the blade, offering it handle first to Eve like an olive branch. 

“You’re trusting me with a knife?” Eve says, meaning it as a joke. They’ve both put enough holes in the other to last a lifetime. 

“Of course.” Villanelle’s reply is as earnest as her eyes are wide. She cups Eve’s cheek with her hand, a gesture that has become all too familiar between them. Eve takes a step back, careful to keep the knife pointed at the ground. 

“Onions, right?” 

“Yes, thank you.” Villanelle is as polite as ever as she picks up the chopping board full of diced tomatoes and adds them to a pan already simmering on the hob; humming to herself all the while. 

Eve slides past her in the cramped kitchen and fetches a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer. Villanelle frowns as she turns around and finds Eve standing with the spoon in her mouth. “What on Earth are you doing?” 

“What, this?” Eve chuckles and pulls the spoon out of her mouth and holds it up as if she thinks Villanelle has never seen one before. “My eyes always water when I chop onions. The enzymes react with the metal. My Grandmother taught me.” 

“Bullshit!” Villanelle laughs. “That can’t work!” She stands over Eve’s shoulder while the older woman pops the spoon back in her mouth and sets about chopping the onions.  

She speeds through two full onions in a matter of minutes - also something her Grandmother taught her to do - while Villanelle watches in rapt fascination. Eve stops as she notices Villanelle rubbing at her eyes. She smirks, letting the spoon hang loose from her lips. 

“I told you so.” Eve says in a light sing-song voice as she puts the knife down and wipes her hands on a nearby towel. Ignoring Villanelle’s grumblings, she turns and soaks the wash cloth that’s sitting by the sink. 

She presses the damp compress to Villanelle’s eyes with one hand, while the other finds the small of her back. Villanelle leans in to her touch, her own hands settling on Eve’s hips. 

“Better?” Eve’s voice catches at the back of her throat as she pulls the cloth back, arching her head up to look Villanelle in the eyes. 

“Much.” Villanelle wears a dazzling smile. 

The kiss is hardly unexpected, but it still takes Eve’s breath away as Villanelle’s lips press against her own. Eve lets herself indulge in the kiss for a moment, before she pulls away and presses a hand to Villanelle’s chest. 

“Dinner won’t make itself.” She says with a sheepish smile and pops the spoon back in her mouth before Villanelle can object. It doesn’t stop her pouting, which has Eve’s stomach curled up in knots. 

They work in tandem to chop the rest of the vegetables for the sauce and boil the spaghetti. Villanelle is as hands on as ever; though it’s Eve her hands keep finding. Eve slaps them away, but she takes a little longer each time. 

She sets the table while Villanelle plates up. She’s made mountains of pasta. The pan is almost still full as she sets it one of the cold rings of the hob. They will be eating the leftovers for a week. 

Once she places the plates on the table, Villanelle fetches a bottle of white wine from the fridge and pours herself a glass. “Do you want some tea, or squash?” She asks Eve. 

Eve scrunches her face up. “Neither. I want a fucking drink.” Brushing past Villanelle, she reaches for a glass in the cabinet behind her. 

“That’s not a good idea.” Says Villanelle, genuine concern written across her face. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if she’s about to have the final say. “The medicine-” 

“I’ve cut right down!” Eve insists with a pout. “C’mon, just one glass. Please?” She places a hand on Villanelle’s arm, trying to implore her. 

“Fine.” Villanelle snatches the glass and fills it halfway, but she doesn’t look happy.

“Thank you.” Eve takes it and helps herself to a huge gulp. She regrets it the instant the wine burns its way down her throat and the room goes in and out of focus.

She coughs, trying to hide her discomfort as she takes a seat at the table. Villanelle sits opposite her, scrutinising the older woman as she picks up her fork to eat. 

“I’m fine.” Eve snaps at her when the staring becomes too much. “Really.” She insists, but doesn’t touch the rest of her wine. 

Villanelle washes up once they’re finished eating. Despite her protests, Eve picks up a towel to help. They work in a comfortable silence, Villanelle washing and Eve drying. 

The younger woman hums softly as she works, swaying her hips and knocking into Eve. Her playful teasing escalates when she scoops up a handful of soap suds and plants them on Eve’s nose. 

“Hey!” Eve leans over to scoop some suds up herself, but Villanelle intercepts with ease, pinning Eve against the sink with her body. They’ve been here before, and Eve’s body reacts the same as it did in her kitchen. 

Her pulse races as Villanelle cups her cheek and kisses her. It’s becoming something of a habit; and so is Eve letting her get away with it. 

She pulls back, just enough to look Villanelle square in the eyes as she asks her to show her what it’s like to be choked. 

“No.” Says Villanelle. “No, you’re not strong enough yet.” 

“Did you mean it?” Eve switches tracks as she drapes her arms around the taller woman’s shoulders and leans into her. 

“That you’re not strong enough-” 

“No, not that. When you said you’d let me go. Did you mean it?” 

Villanelle takes a moment to consider her answer. She gives a small nod, her gaze boring into Eve’s. “Yes, of course. When you’re ready.” 

Eve has a feeling it will be more like when Villanelle is ready, and she’s not willing to put money on that being any time soon; if it all.


End file.
